They drove almost in silence to the Bishop’s house, where it had been arranged that Julian should spend the night. The Bishop left the two together before the fire in his library, while he personally superintended the arrangement of a guest room. Catherine came over and knelt by the side of Julian’s chair. “Shall I beg forgiveness for the past,” she whispered, “or may I not talk of the future, the glorious future?” “Is it to be glorious?” he asked a little doubtfully. “It can be made so,” she answered with fervour, “by you more than by anybody else living. I defy you--you, Paul Fiske--to impugn our scheme, our aims, the goal towards which we strive. All that we needed was a leader who could lift us up above the localness, the narrow visions of these men. They are in deadly earnest, but they can’t see far enough, and each sees along his own groove. It is true that at the end the same sun shines, but no assembly of people can move together along a dozen different ways and keep the same goal in view.” He touched the packet. “We do not yet know the written word here,” he reminded her. “I do,” she insisted. “My heart tells me. Besides, I have had many hints. There are people in London whose position forces them to remain silent, who understand and know.” “Foreigners?” Julian asked suspiciously. “Neutrals, of course, but neutrals of discretion are very useful people. The military party in Germany is making a brave show still, but it is beaten, notwithstanding its victories. The people are gathering together in their millions. Their voice is already being heard. Here we have the proof of it.” “But even if these proposed terms are as favourable as you say,” Julian objected, “how can you force them upon the English Cabinet? There is America-France. Yours is purely a home demand. A government has other things to think of and consider.” “France is war-weary to the bone,” she declared. “France will follow England, especially when she knows the contents of that packet. As for America, she came into this after the great sacrifices had been made. She demands nothing more than is to be yielded up. It is not for the sake of visionary ideas, not for diplomatic precedence that the humanitarians of the world are going to hesitate about ending this brutal slaughter.” He studied her curiously. In the firelight her face seemed to him almost strangely beautiful. She was uplifted by the fervour of her thoughts. The depth in her soft brown eyes was immeasurable; the quiver of her lips, so soft and yet so spiritual, was almost inspiring. Her hand was resting upon his shoulder. She seemed to dwell upon his expression, to listen eagerly for his words. Yet he realised that in all this there was no personal note. She was the disciple of a holy cause, aflame with purpose. “It will mean a revolution,” he said thoughtfully.